


Davey in Eb Minor

by SpraceJunkie



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Jack has synesthesia, M/M, Synesthesia, go read Color and Sound, i'll add characters as they appear i guess, if you wanna know more about that, synesthesia!Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12426867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpraceJunkie/pseuds/SpraceJunkie
Summary: Davey is an aspiring writer, Jack is an aspiring artist.Jack has synthesia and works at the MOMA.They fall in love?I don't know my dudes but this exists now.





	1. Chapter 1

Davey Jacobs had lived in New York for a long time.  
It was an ideal place for a writer, full of noisy, loud areas and just as many quiet places, tucked into narrow streets with big windows.  
There was always something going on, always something to write an article for, always something to add to one of his books, even his day job was full of inspiration, people who came to the library with lives lived and stories to tell.  
After almost ten years of living in the City of Dreams, he’d thought he’d seen it all. Naked people painted bright colors, people fighting loudly, strange costumes, every culture he could imagine, artists capturing the city on the page. People walking dogs as big as he was tall, people walking dogs smaller than his shoe, people walking kids on leashes, once a person walking a rat, several times people walking cats.  
And yet, he’d never seen anyone quite like the artist that had captured his attention today.  
It was Saturday, the library had already closed, and he had been looking forward to sitting down in his favorite little cafe with his laptop and working on his historical fiction novel; he’d found a new history book in the back of the library while taking inventory that had so many little details he couldn’t wait to fit into his story. Instead, he found himself standing still and watching the only other unmoving person in the crowd around him.  
Artists often had easels set up on corners, either tucked back against the buildings or up to the curb, it wasn't a rare sight. But normally, they were still and quiet, moving their arms, smiling at the people around them, displaying their work for people to buy.  
This guy was moving like he was dancing, clunky headphones over one ear but off the other, paint stained beanie perched precariously under the headband of the headphones, flannel unbuttoned and showing off his undershirt, skinny jeans and bright red converse. When he flicked his paintbrush up against the canvass he went up on his toes, he sidestepped as he swept sideways, ducked his head as he went down.  
Davey automatically generated description for him, how he would write him into a story.  
Gracefully normal, delicate yet strong, controlled motion, dark and beautiful, insight, tall, gorgeous.  
Davey couldn't stop watching. Every once in awhile, he would pause, look up at the sky, and smile, before picking a new color and beginning a new pattern on top of the old. He finally finished his painting, slipping his headphones down around his neck, and smiling at his work.  
“Oh. Hello.” He said, looking somewhat startled to see Davey standing so close.  
To be honest, Davey wasn’t much less surprised. He’d started out far enough away it wasn’t weird, but ended up so close he could see into the artist’s bag.  
“Uh, hi.” Davey felt his face heating up and barely stopped himself from hiding his blush in his elbow.  
“Uh...did you need something? Or were you just looking?”  
“I was, uh, writing. I mean, thinking about...watching you. Watching you paint.” Davey physically flinched at how awkward his sentence was. The artist smiled, understanding what Davey meant.  
“You can’t even see the painting from there. Come look, if you want to.” Davey stepped around the legs of the easel, and took in the painting.  
It was big, and it was bright. Colors swirled in and around each other, an abstract cityscape in colors that shouldn’t have belonged together but somehow did. There were loops of dark blue in the shapes of people, grays and greens weaving into buildings, oranges and pinks in the sky, all touching and blending, coming together into one picture.  
“I guess that means you like it.” The artist’s smile grew.  
“What?”  
“You said ‘wow’ out loud.”  
“Oh. Um, sorry.”  
“Why? It was a compliment.” He took his beanie off and ran his fingers through already tousled hair, streaking his bright colors into the dark brown. “I’m Jack. Jack Kelly.”  
“Um, Davey Jacobs.” Davey watched again as Jack pulled a small white card from a pocket of his bag, signed it and added a title before sticking it into the bottom corner. “Beethoven's Concrete in F Major. What does that mean?”  
“It’s the colors of Beethoven’s Eighth making a cityscape. A symphony of concrete.” Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to check. “Oh. I have to go, Davey, right? But here.” He pulled out another little white card and scribbled something down, handing it to Davey quickly while folding his easel and picking up his painting gently. “Text me, yeah? You seem cool.” And just like that, he melted away into the crowd, leaving Davey standing on a corner with a little white card with messy handwriting telling him Jack’s phone number.  
By the time Davey finally made it to his cafe and pulled out his laptop to write, he found himself distracted by the little white card in his pocket. He wanted to text Jack, find out more about the artist who’d managed to distract him for almost a half hour from his book he’d been so excited to work on. Something about him had just seemed interesting, and Davey wanted to find out what exactly it was.  
He tried to write, but his characters kept getting confused, one from a short story slipping into his historical fiction, saying sentences they shouldn’t be saying. He could tell it wasn’t good, no matter how much he tried, so he eventually closed his laptop and settled for reading his new book, taking notes on what he wanted to use.  
The little white card came out to be used as a bookmark, and again Davey stared at the number for a little while before finally entering it in his phone.  
**Davey:** Hello.  
**Davey:** This is Davey.  
He sighed and put his phone down, trying to look back to his book but again finding himself even more distracted now that he’d sent the text.  
**Jack:** hey :)  
**Jack:** sorry i left so fast i had to  
**Jack:** get to the museum for a delivery and i almost forgot  
**Jack:** :P  
Davey tapped his phone against the table, trying to think of what to say back. Before he could, Jack send another text.  
**Jack:** i can’t do anything else 2nite even tho i don’t rly have to be here bc they say they need me but they don't  
**Jack:** but we should like meet somewhere sometime  
**Jack:** bc like u kno stuff about me now but idk anything about u so  
**Jack:** that seems unfair  
**Jack:** how bout like saturday night or smth  
**Jack:** or not cause i just realized we met like an hour ago on the streets of nyc so that’s not very comforting oops  
**Davey:** Saturday would be fun  
**Jack:** :) cool!  
**Jack:** i get out at seven on saturdays if that’s too late  
**Jack:** oh yeah i work at the moma  
**Jack:** museum of modern art  
**Davey:** I’ll meet you there then  
**Jack:** yay! c u then!  
**Jack:** :)


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks, Davey met Jack in several places, just to hang out. They went out to eat, to the movies, once, and a few times just walked around the MoMA together. He was easy to be around, Davey laughed a lot when they were together, and Jack always had things to say.

When they were in the MoMA, Jack had stories about every exhibit.  
“When we were working with the people who helped us get this one, there was this one guy who wanted us to literally change the walls so he could organize the paintings exactly how he wanted. We’ll do whatever we can to make it look right, but this is a permanent wall.”

“This one was supposed to be temporary, and then the artist got into a fight with their agent and like two weeks later sold it to us to spite the agent, so now it’s ours. And it’s awesome.”

“Okay, see that lady looking at the Dali over there? She comes in every Saturday, and on the second Saturday of every month she comes to my office and tells me the story of how she discovered the MoMA when she was sixteen. She used to go to my boss, but she got tired of hearing the story over and over, she now the lady comes to me. All I know is that her name is Millie and the year was 1967.”  
Jack liked to walk with Davey part of the way to his apartment, but since Davey lived further up Manhattan and Jack lived in SoHo, he never went all the way.

“Hey, how about next week sometime you come over for dinner? I could show you around the neighborhood, if you want, it’s pretty neat.” Jack rocked back and forth on his feet while he asked.

“I’d love to.” Jack smiled when Davey agreed.

“I’ll text you the address, then.”

“Okay.” Davey felt his face heating up like usual when Jack gave Davey his hug goodbye like he did every time. Davey knew it was just Jack, he hugged everyone, but the more time they spent together the more Davey had to admit he had a crush on Jack, and therefore he blushed every time Jack touched him at all. Jack didn’t seem to notice, which was good, but Davey could tell that it didn’t even fade as he finished walking home.

Davey had also noticed that Jack had started showing up in his writing, as a small side character in one story, an old love interest in another, which definitely meant Davey was gone on him.

When Davey got to the address Jack had sent him, he almost couldn’t believe it. It was a huge building with a cast iron front, one of the ones SoHo was famous for, and it looked almost more like fancy a warehouse than an apartment building. When he buzzed next to the number of Jack’s apartment, Jack’s voice came over the little speaker.

“Come up the stairs to the fifth floor, I’m on the left!”

Jack’s apartment was not the apartment Davey had expected. It was a loft, which he supposed he should have been able to guess as soon as he knew Jack lived in SoHo, and it was wide and open, with tall windows that were as close to floor to ceiling as non floor to ceiling windows could be. There was one huge room, and two smaller, closed off sections that were probably his bedroom and bathroom. The kitchen was against the same wall the door was, and there was a living room area set up in front of half of the windows.

Then there were the colors.

Everywhere.

Bright colors were in every single corner they could possibly be, ranging from reds and oranges to blues and greens. Paintings similar to the one Davey had seen him painting were everywhere, in the same abstract shapes and almost clashing colors put together by sweeping lines.

There were a few that didn’t even seem to take the shape of things in the same way most did, just stripes and swirls covering an entire canvass.

Then in one corner, there was a little desk with Jack’s laptop all set up, and a keyboard and guitar, and a little microphone on a stand.

“Hi!” Jack was wearing a goofy little apron and was even more paint streaked than usual. “So fun story I forgot to start cooking until like literally twenty minutes ago? So it’s gonna be a little while, sorry.” Davey laughed at how apologetic Jack sounded.

“It’s fine, Jack, it’s only seven.” Jack smiled and went back to cooking.

“I figured pasta would be good, right? I don’t really know exactly what you like because we’ve never really gone out to _dinner_ , but I figured you can’t hate pasta, right?”

“I like pasta.”

“Good. I’ve never made this before, but it sounded good, so I am now.” Jack was even more chatty than usual while he stirred his pots and passed Davey spoons of sauce to taste.

“I didn’t work today so I was just painting, if you can’t tell. You probably can, you’re pretty observant. Also, it smells like paint in here, probably, but I’m so used to it I can’t tell.”

“What were you painting?”

“Dancers. Over by the windows, see?” Davey looked over towards the windows and saw the easel all set up, next to boxes labeled with colors and numbers that were incomprehensible to Davey. There was a painting set up on it, another one of swirling colors and moving lines, and even though it wasn’t done Davey could pick out the dancers taking shape. “I was listening to the Nutcracker and that’s why I started cooking late; I had to paint them.”

“Do you always paint to music?”

“Most of the time.” Jack hummed in content when he tasted his sauce one last time. 

“I’ve never made white sauce from scratch before so I’d say this is good enough.” He moved to pulling out plates and silverware and setting the small table.

“I can’t ever focus with music playing.” Davey said. “I have to write without it.”

“Music gives me the colors I need, usually. Have I not explained that?”

“I don't think so.” Jack laughed.

“Oops. Guess I forgot. I have synesthesia, so I literally see colors when I hear sounds. I can’t believe I didn’t mention, I usually say something like “wow that dog bark is so blue” like every ten minutes.”

“You see sound?”

“It’s hard to explain what I mean. You know when you get little floaty things across your eyes? It’s like that, only with colors that match the sounds I hear.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Mm.” Jack had his mouth full. “It’s just normal for me, so I forget other people don’t see it exactly the same I do. Like I know you might not see purple when you hear an Eb, but that doesn’t stop me from forgetting you won’t know what I mean when I say that sounds so purple. Or when I say I’m painting in the colors of a song. But it’s not as cool as it sounds, really, it’s just flashes of colors and sounds that I’ve learned to tune out. I focus on it sometimes but not usually.” Conversation with Jack was easy, and full of laughter and smiling. They talked a little more about Jack’s art, and Jack wound the conversation around to Davey’s writing, and when dinner was over and they were just walking around, he had just as many facts about the neighborhood as he did about the MoMA. He told Davey about the history of the area, and the buildings, and some of the people he knew. By the time he was walking Davey to the subway station Davey had learned more about SoHo than he would have from taking notes from a book.

“G’night, Dave.” Jack smiled and hugged Davey. “See you soon?”

“Of course.”

“Cool.” Jack waved when Davey boarded the train.

**Jack:** does tm work for like lunch or something?

**Davey:** I think so!

**Jack:** how bout we meet in front of the museum at like one ish.

**Davey:** Sounds good!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for one I realized I've been spelling synesthesia wrong which is exciting.
> 
> For another I updated? A fic? Wow that's pretty rare, huh?
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated! And coming to my tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Please go send love to Sami, @crunchie-morris on here and Tumblr, for giving me the idea to write this. 
> 
> Also please leave kudos if you like it and comments if you love it, and come talk to me on Tumblr! I'm @the-donnynova-band and newly @shitty-newsies-aus, so come talk to me!


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